Like this:

I found a manuscript in the attic;
crumbling paper decomposing
into fragments of a life.
I saw a resemblance in this girl;
brown haired, pale faced,
quick paced, smiling energy
turning inward.

I read her words hoping to know
what became of this bashful, dreamy eyed
fatherless bud picking wildflowers;
this babies on her hip,
fingers intertwined,
one foot on the accelerator,
the other on the brakes
mess of nerves.

She spoke of love calmer than her stride,
whispered psalms sweeter than the roses missing
from her cheeks and in these pages,
there was life. There were fields, stars;
there were moons over river water

and satin soft comfort not seen in polaroids
that she left; the only evidence
of a past filled with more shade
than any Southern girl would find
on any given Summer day